He cycled to the Gates of Hell—
But, past that point, you have to hike.
The numbers of the poor dead swell.
He cycled to the Gates of Hell.
Necessity you can’t dispel.
He had to set aside his bike.
He cycled to the Gates of Hell.
But, past that point, you have to hike.

At the conclusion of a book by King,
There’s frequently a raging conflagration.
“Fire purifies.” That’s Ben Mears’ observation.
He’ll get those fucking vampires scurrying!
As bats, perhaps, some targets will take wing,
Though where they’ll fly requires much calculation.
Many will burn in place: no complication.
Oh, what triumphant joy the dawn may bring!
I and my neighbors now are at the end
Of such a book. But no triumphant cry
Is rising from our throats. We must contend
With unforgiving aftermaths — or try.
Deep in resentful regions we descend.
Somebody should have let the vampires lie.

Oh, what a medal John McCain has won!
The hero Steven Spielberg won it, too—
And Hillary’s a member of that crew.
Under a leftist and progressive sun,
John prospers. Joy transcends mere mundane fun—
And John is joyous now. Applaud him, you!
Obama’s aims he hastened to pursue.
Is he puffed up with righteous pride? A ton!
Now he transcends conservative convention.
For adulation he can never lack.
Ted Kennedy will welcome his ascension.
Enthusiasm here must not be slack.
Oh, sing his praises, folks — and never mention
The way he stabbed his voters in the back!

Shea says he’s writing verse because he’s “creaky.”
You’d think his inner grease would lubricate
That heart. But then, Shea’s claims are often cheeky.
His blimp-sized self he’s eager to inflate.
His therapeutic aim makes him a mate
To modern poetesses who confess.
Sylvia Plath may be his kind of great—
Or what he’s dimly aping, more or less.
Sylvia Plath I count as no success—
But I won’t let you piss on her, Mark Shea!
Her mind may well have been a sorry mess,
But she was not a fraud. You get away!
Your therapies should never see the light.
You need to stop pretending you can write.

Erich Zann, your wild music ain’t bad.
I can tolerate you, loony lad—
Though you put me in touch
With Yog-Sothoth and such.
But that neighbor kid’s stuff drives me mad!

—Tom Riley

(Note: In Lovecraft’s original story — one of his personal favorites — Zann’s instrument is not a violin. I bow here to popular misconception and ease of allusion. Also, in the original story, the mysterious dark reality behind Zann’s mad music is not clearly any being from the Cthulhu mythos. I represent this dark reality as Yog-Sothoth because he is the Lovecraftian Papa Legba, the Opener of the Way. TR.)